


Guillotine

by hellsbelz



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Hannibal Loves Will, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Will Loves Hannibal, Will is a Mess, Will is the best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 01:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13493832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellsbelz/pseuds/hellsbelz
Summary: Hannibal is mine, and you cannot have him.After the fall, Will and Hannibal run away together. It goes as well as you'd expect.(I suck at summaries!)





	Guillotine

**Author's Note:**

> hello all! this is my first published fandom work anywhere and i'm really excited to share it with you!
> 
> it's my intention to make this a multi-chaptered fic, but life is hard sometimes so updates may be sporadic (sorry in advance).
> 
> title of the fic is taken from the song "Guillotine" by Jon Bellion.
> 
> please heed the tags. this fic will contain canon typical manipulation, violence, sass and snark, and a lot of stuff having to do with trauma. i will add more as necessary and will always address new or specifically relevant ones at the beginning of each chapter.
> 
> this fic is unbeta-ed as well, so feel free to point out any mistakes.
> 
> further up and further in, my loves. xo

Will Graham has dreamed of falling his whole life.

It’s a common enough dream that when he wakes, shivering and damp, he knows exactly why his stomach is in knots and his breath is more ragged than usual. He closes his eyes, tries to remember what steady ground feels like, but he can see it, he can see it so clearly.

A dark body of water, so tumultuous and black that it looks like the pit of hell itself, and he’s diving headlong into it. It’s whispering to him, it’s saying _see? Don’t you see?_ Every time, he’s about to hit the surface and just when he opens his mouth to breathe in the inky water, just when he opens his eyes to see a splash of color hiding in the depths, he wakes.

He’s had this dream for years. Before he met Hannibal. Before he killed Garret Jacob Hobbs. Before his mind began its attack on itself. Before Abigail and Italy and Molly and Alana and Hannibal.

Before the fall, the final fall. Even before he looked Hannibal in the eyes, shining maroon and proud, and hauled them over the side of the cliff. Even before he felt that eternal second of free-fall, that horrible and familiar swoop of his gut that he felt all the way in his throat. Even before Hannibal had guided their bodies in midair to have them hit the water feet first and Will had clenched his eyes shut because he had always woken before this part, he never knew what came next.

Even before he opened his eyes, as soon as he felt the freezing water shock his system and he saw the darkness, he saw the Leviathan that lurked below the depths in his dreams, and heard the whispers caress his ears even over the roaring of the sea. _You do see now, don’t you? You see. Just like I promised._

Even before he opened his mouth to welcome the saltwater of the Chesapeake into his lungs, opened his mouth to welcome a death in Hannibal’s arms. _Hannibal._

Even before he felt nails dig into his back and he is suddenly in reality, not a nightmare and he is instantly spurred into action, the images forgotten as he feels the burning of life and purifying salt in his chest.

He needs to see the sun again, he needs to be spit from the depths, he needs to save Hannibal. He needs to tell Hannibal how he feels and he can’t do that if they’re dead. He shoves up through the water and breaks the surface, gasping for air and clawing for Hannibal, who is drifting from him. He catches him by the hand, holding on so tightly that he fears he’ll break his hand. He locks eyes with Hannibal just as another wave crashes over them and he loses his grip for a second and he starts to panic. His blood roars in his ears and he reaches for anything he can grab on Hannibal’s body for purchase and he yanks, pulls them towards the cliff wall and holds on for dear life. He knows Hannibal is unconscious, from blood loss or lack of oxygen, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care. He just scrambles until he can find a rock to hold onto so he can pull them up onto a group of boulders near the wall. As soon as he latches on, he feels another wave beat over him and he grips Hannibal with such force, he knows it will bruise. But Hannibal is his, and he looks at Hannibal’s bloodied face and knows that in his dreams, he would have hit the water and Hannibal would have been under the surface, the splash of color always hidden, waiting for Will to find him.

_Hannibal is mine, and you cannot have him._

He takes a deep breath in, holds it, exhales. His own blood mixes with the saltwater in his hair and the tears streaming down his face. He closes his eyes, takes another deep breath in and it hitches on a sob. 

Will does not know how or why, but he has lived. He and Hannibal have tried again and again to kill each other, but they have both survived and they must continue to do so. They have no choice now. 

They chose each other long ago. 

 

 

He’s freezing, his shoulder is royally fucked and his face is stinging from the salt in the knife wound in his cheek. His teeth are chattering so hard, it’s giving him a migraine. Hannibal is still unconscious and it’s been minutes, too many minutes. They need to move, they have to _go._ Will shakes Hannibal and gets up in his face.

“Hannibal, wake up, _please_. We have to go, I need you, I can’t do this unless you’re awake.” He keeps saying "please" because even in unconsciousness, he deserves politeness. He shakes him, growing more panicked by the second, until he sees Hannibal’s eyes open groggily and he almost sobs in relief. He wipes saltwater from Hannibal’s eyes, cradling his head in his hands and says “Hannibal.”

The older man’s eyes crease with a faint smile with just a hint of a grimace from the pain he is undoubtedly in and Will is reminded of the gunshot wound in Hannibal’s side and they have to go.

“Can you move? We have to get up, we have to move. It’s been too long, we have to leave here Hannibal, we gotta get safe.” His tone is verging on hysteria but he tamps it down, _think like Hannibal._

He helps Hannibal to his feet, noticing the audible groan of pain coming from the other man and he almost gags with the weight and the knowledge of how destroyed and vulnerable Hannibal looks. Will supports Hannibal’s weight as best he can and they struggle over the rocks and onto the beach, walking the 500 meters or so until they reach the boathouse. 

Hannibal is oddly silent except for the hitches in his breath and the audible gagging he makes before he’s leaning over and vomiting blood and saltwater on the marsh. Will tries to block it out, stay calm, not look at the blood. This is Hannibal, for Christ’s sake, he’s supposed to be invincible. Will doesn’t know what to do with this information, so he presses on.

Will shoves the door open and tries to hold back the tears bubbling up in his throat when he sets Hannibal down onto the bed and strips him of his clothing. He has to think clinically or this will all end in Hannibal murdering him because of his weakened emotional state. He thinks wryly that even in Hannibal’s weakened physical state he could still kick Will’s ass.

“Come on, let’s get you at least partially dressed and then I’ll look at your side, okay?” Hannibal has still not said a single word since they jumped and Will has a pit in his stomach that he could call “worry” over this fact.

He lets Hannibal lay on his uninjured side and searches the boathouse for supplies, finds a first aid kit and some clean towels, microwaves some water (a microwave in a house Hannibal owns is almost laughable) and breathes in through his nose, holds it, out through his mouth. 4-7-8. 

The bullet wound is, mercifully, through and through but Will can’t be sure if the bullet has nicked anything important and Hannibal isn’t talking to let him know if that is the case or not. Will chooses not to think about it too much, stifling the blood flow and beginning the sutures.

It comes back to Will easily, the stitching up of wounds. He’s done this too many times before, to his father when he’d bash himself up trying to work on boat motors when he was drunk, to himself going through basic training and when he got into scuffles on the force. Hell, he’d stitched up Winston once when he’d gotten caught in some bramble and took a chunk out of his back leg. He’s never had to stitch Hannibal up before. It doesn’t sit well with Will, this knowledge. He still counts his breathing, measures them to keep from panicking when he sneaks a glimpse at Hannibal’s face.

His face is calm, impassive, but his eyes are screwed tightly shut. Like he can’t open them, like he can’t face Will. Will stops what he’s doing and says quietly, “Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s face softens but he doesn’t open his eyes. Will finishes tying off the stitches quickly and then wipes his hands on the towel. He touches Hannibal’s face and strokes over his cheekbone softly. When the other man’s eyes finally open, they are full of emotion, _toomuchtoomuchtoomuch_ , and Will snatches his hand away as if he had been burned. “Hannibal, wh-what’s wrong, tell me, talk to me please.”

Hannibal still does not speak. He grabs Will’s hand from where it remains suspended in midair and touches it to his face again. Will holds his breath and tries not to move. The moment seems fragile, like it will shatter at any moment, but it is also weighty. It is heavy and it hurts Will’s chest. Hannibal leans into the touch for a fraction of a second and then moves to sit up.

“Hey, whoa. Calm down, you need to rest,” Will protests but Hannibal looks into his eyes and points at his face and then at his shoulder. Will understands. He needs stitching up, too, stitches that will be better than his ever will be even if they’re done by a psychotic killer who is most likely walking around with nicked intestines. 

Will sits quietly during the stitches on his shoulder but cannot hide the discomfort on his face when it comes to his cheek. Apparently they don’t have time for anesthetic, or Hannibal is just being a dick about it, but it hurts and Will makes it well known. Hannibal still refuses to speak. 

They gather as many supplies as they can, medical gear, clothes, half a dozen forged identities and several rolled up stacks of cash in at least five different currencies. Will studies Hannibal while his back is turned and thinks that he must have had this planned for a long time. They each have several aliases and Will still doesn’t know what to make of all of this. He’s still high on the kill, the Dragon still looking back at him when he looks at himself in he dingy mirror in the small bathroom.

He helps Hannibal into the truck and gets behind the wheel. He starts driving south because they need to be out of here yesterday.

“Where are we going, Hannibal?” Silence is his only answer. “Seriously, where the hell are we going? Oddly enough, I can’t read your mind, so you’re gonna have to tell me where to start driving.” Silence.

“Fuck you, Hannibal. I saved our lives, the least you could do is tell me where we’re going to live them now.”

“I thought it was your intention to kill the both of us,” Hannibal rasps out. Will whips his head around, staring at Hannibal for half a second before turning his eyes back on the road. Will swallows around the lump on his throat he could call guilt, but he won’t.

“I didn’t really have any ‘intentions,’ Hannibal. I didn’t care what happened. I just wanted us to be together, whatever the outcome was. We lived. So what now?” Hannibal merely stares ahead, his mouth turned slightly downwards. That could mean anything from pure curiosity to murderous rage. Hannibal sighs and closes his eyes.

“There is a small charter plane waiting for us on the coast of Virginia, near Virginia Beach. It will take us wherever we want to go. It is your choice, Will. As you say, we are together. That is all that matters to me.” 

Will considers this. He thinks of all of the places they could go and decides that it doesn’t really matter to him, either. He turns on the radio and Claire de Lune sings out through the speakers and into the cab of the car.

For worse or for better, they are together. As long as they both shall live.


End file.
